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Teaching is less of a job than a calling. It’s in our bones. We just can’t help ourselves.

This year I made the momentous decision to join the other 50’000 UK teachers who left in 2015 in stepping down as a full time secondary school teacher. Over the past two years, I’ve done that job on wheels and through a lot of painkillers, but in the end it wasn’t my crappy health that sealed the deal.

I’m not actually leaving teaching. Instead, I’m moving to pastures new where the only grazers are sixth form students, retaining a very part time role in my current place, and offering online private tuition. It may seem bizarre to leave one full time sensible job to combine part time roles, but hear me out:

My sixth form teaching is the highlight of my day. But my subject is niche & in its infancy at my new college so whilst I build my little empire of nerds, hours are reduced. A Level Computer Science students challenge me mentally and I love seeing them fan the first flickers of a flame that grows to so many of them ending up in the industry, or at Uni studying the subject I love.

Leaving my current school is bittersweet. Here, I have friends, comrades, family. There are many things that try my patience to the bitter end, but parting was such sweet sorrow that I couldn’t leave completely.

Private tuition brings a whole new dynamic to my teaching skills. In some respects it’s much easier than classroom teaching as there’s no rushing around dividing your time, or dealing with behaviour issues, and you get to develop a strong working relationship with tutees that is difficult in large classes. On the other hand, it’s much harder as you are giving constant input – there’s no quiet purposeful practice when “on the clock”, and many students who come to you as a tutor are there because they’re not keeping up for one reason or another. The stakes are high, but the rewards are enormous.

So that leaves me in a bit of a pickle for now. I’m winding down my full time role, whilst also not winding down at all as there’s still 7 weeks left to go, I’m preparing for my new role in September, and I’m already knee deep in online tutees in the evenings and weekends so I can hit the ground running (or wheeling) in September.

I’m exhausted. But therun up to the big jump to a new Lilly pad is an awful lot of fun.

Having openly disregarded out of hand the findings from the UN that they are guilty of “grave or systematic violations” of the human rights of disabled people, our government is looking into making anyone claiming disability benefits meet regularly with an “employment coach” (read careers advisors with powers to take away your money). Now whilst this has been presented as helping people with disabilities get back to work, this will apply to anyone who isn’t in an institution. Read people needing physical care at home, people suffering a mental health crisis, people in constant relentless pain. People who can’t always fight back.

As someone who is negotiating a reduction in hours to hang on to what physical & mental health that’s left, this is scary. The argument behind insisting that people with disabilities work is to give a purpose and improve mental health. Well my dear Tory MPs, let me give you some cold hard facts.
I love my job, but pushing through regardless has directly caused some very dark thoughts. And I am infinitely lucky to have the husband that I do because he listens every time I need to shout my frustrations at the world. Most people wouldn’t have the patience. (You, by the way, don’t deem him to be a carer despite dressing me every morning, helping me bathe, cooking for me, & cleaning. why? Because he does all of this AND holds down a successful job. Sounds fair, yes?)

Despite holding on by my fingernails, I work partially because I’m too scared that the state won’t catch me if let go.

A day of work leaves me with levels of pain that regular strong painkillers & morphine don’t touch. This is not “oh, take a nurofen & have a glass of wine”. This is unbearable pressure on my spine, deep bone pain in my joints to a level where without painkillers I’m physically sick. Now tell me how running your second home paid for out of Government coffers gives you a headache…

A day of work leaves me so exhausted that I can barely hold a conversation with my children. (I am eternally thankful for my husband & our parents who take care of the important kid stuff).

Physical pain takes a mental toll. I’ve lived my life as a pacifist, but I wish every MP who thinks this is a great idea could live for a month with these daily pain levels. Of course, they’d need to carry on with their current lives because why should we be cut any slack? It does you good to be at work after all.

Since I went downhill 18 months ago, I’ve been asked on 4 separate occasions by government employees (DWP, Social Services, & Occupational health ) “do you think about killing yourself?”. Always matter of fact, like it’s a reasonable conclusion to draw because EDS doesn’t have a cure & no one knows how to effectively manage the pain.

Putting aside the wholly inappropriate nature of assuming that someone with a disability would consider death preferable to their current situation being permanent, the answer has always been no. Until I started trying to work through another physical dip this September. So here I am trying to negotiate putting my health & family before my job. Because, dear Tory MP, it’s not a job that gives me a reason for dragging my arse out of bed despite it hurting to breathe a good percentage of my days. It’s my family. I make a difference by bringing up two beautiful & well educated children. By growing old with my husband and reducing my financial burden on the NHS by taking care of my health.

You can try & strip away disabled people’s dignity in the name of austerity whilst you pander to large corporations who pay less tax than I do, but in the end you’ll be seen for exactly what you are. Hopefully by the general populous, but better still, I’d love to be wrong about the whole religion thing and see you meet God at the pearly gates and ask you directly, “DID YOU DO UNTO OTHERS….?”.Note: I have started my official response to the green paper, but the form is so long and poorly worded that it is testing the limits of my speech to text. It’s almost as if they don’t want responses…

Like this:

See that? That’s my final spoon flying into the distance. Off it goes along with my ability to appear like I’m coping.

A year ago, I said I’d be happy if I made it to Christmas with my job and life in general in tact. I pushed for medical help & I’m the end paid for it as it was not forthcoming locally.

At Christmas, I was determined to make it to the end of the year (academic, so July. I know, us teachers even mess with the calendar). Since then, the liquid food is almost gone & I’ve gained most of the weight I lost (meh, would’ve preferred not to, but health over flubber). By my own criteria in two weeks I will have won. Made it to the end. Two short weeks currently feels like a lifetime & I’m not wholly sure I’m going to get there.

Let me tell you about EDS fatigue. I’m writing this whilst I clock watch because in 15 minutes I can take more painkillers. I’m exhausted, but every time I lay my head down I’m jolted awake by the pain in my legs & shoulder… & neck. I have a migraine brewing at the base of my neck & pushing against my eyeballs. 13 minutes.

I took on too much this week (normal teaching + new form induction for year 8 + year 5 taster day + parents evening). Tomorrow is Friday, but also sports day #2. I’d sent a concerned email to PE about my ability to trek across the field and through trees in potential rain to the athletics in my powerchair, but was assured that the field was totally accessible and the weather would be “hot and sunny”. Actually, it was chilly and drizzly and whilst the powerchair did make it slowly this was not without having my bones shaken out of place to a point where I took oramorph at school for the first time in several months. I have to do this again tomorrow. The fear of adding to current pain levels combined with zero spoons = no sleep and rising anxiety levels.7 minutes.

The question should be asked at this point, why don’t you just put the blog down and get some sleep?

Well, here’s the thing about fatigue and EDS. Imagine you got up at 4am (bleary & a bit confused). Now stand up holding cans of beans in each hand – raise your arms & keep them there… how long? Well, all day. Gravity isn’t working in our favour – where connective tissue fails, simple lifting of your own arm can be exhausting and eventually painful.

Now you have another tin strapped to the back of your head – tilt your head back and look at the sky. Same thing – All. Day. Spines are there to keep us upright. Unless the connective tissues are lax meaning that sitting up straight, or holding your head up is akin to doing situps all day. I wobble between focused controlled posture & slumpy withered flower.

Finally, get home and drink three cups of coffee before bed because your autonomic system is wrecked and thinks it is bloody hilarious to release a shit tonne of adrenalin into your system as you try to rest. Couple this with overnight hives due to mast cells chucking out histamine in reaction to the drugs that keep you from becoming one of the zombies from 28 days later through sheer pain levels, and EVERYTHING IS JUST PEACHY.

So yeah, when I grit my teeth and sing song “good morning! Yes I’m fine thank you. Nearly there!” at you in the morning, I’m doing it to hide the rocking quietly whilst I do mental battle of “I can’t do this anymore…” with the “yes we can!” chant missing in action.

This started as a Facebook post to tell people what hairbrained scheme I’d signed up for next, but I had way more to explain than I could stick on a simple post, so let me elaborate…

I’m not going to bang on about it, but if you fancy having a giggle at me looking like pink covered death, I’m running the Worthing Race for Life next Sunday. Ok, not exactly running, I’m propelling in a wheelchair. Taking part is not only to support Cancer Research UK, but is a middle finger up to the stereotype of being ill.

This morning, my mum hesitantly passed on a message & conversation she’d had with a local physio who called on Friday. It seems that pain management had referred me to the home visit physio who called to book in to see me (yay!). My mum explained that I wasn’t able to speak to her because I was at work to which the response was “well if she’s healthy enough to work, why has she been referred to me?”. People deal with their disability & chronic pain in different ways. Some can’t work & I don’t judge them. I do work as a distraction technique which works because I love my job (despite what I tell you after 4 hours of year 8). It takes a team of people to get me there & my health suffers as a consequence of pushing too hard, but there is a twisted vision of disability in the UK right now:

If you’re disabled, you should work. “Don’t expect us to lift you out of poverty”
If you work, you can’t be disabled because you’re health enough to work.

Shock horror! People with disabilities are all different & we cope by being adaptive and imaginative (Cue my speech to text / video marking system). So yeah, this race is a fair bit about pushing my limits. One thing I won’t do is slide into this victim / saviour complex that health professionals use where I am eternally grateful that they deemed to lay their hands on me 😒. So far GP & OT have been amazing. Other local team are patchy at best. They’ve accepted defeat with cardiology and sent me to UCLH, next is to get them to do the same for Rheumatology.

So why do I need physio if I’m well enough to work?

I’ve been in pain a long time. Like PAIN pain? There were signs early on. I’m too stubborn to give in. Mr Geek deserves a medal.Research is important for all conditions.

Right now, I’m in a lot of pain. My hip subluxes daily, my pelvis dislocates as much, my knees & shoulders dislocate more often than I’d like, my back is a weird shape as the discs degenerate, my hands vary from ok to weird bendy claws. I sound like a bowl of rice crispies! I take painkillers, but my body is resistant to their effects, so the dosage I need makes my head fuzzy. The number of times my lower back & SI have moved has damaged the nerves to an extent where I can’t feel my feet anymore & on occasions go full ‘floppy leg’. Nerve function also interferes with continence. Combined with stretchy insides, this requires some adapting.

I’ve made peace with things falling apart & have created my own rehab program to maximise on the bits that do work in my upper body & core which involves daily squeezing of muscles to get blood flowing, massage from Mr Geek, & pushing myself to just bloody well get on with being an adult (between naps) and being involved in wheelchair racing. I still find it hilarious that I’d call it racing at the speed I go, but I’m working on stamina not speed. An average time for a new runner for a 5k is 25mins, I’m currently at 45mins (Although this is based on how far I’ve pushed as I’ve not gone full distance yet). What I need from this sport is the muscle function to stop my shoulders from popping out as my muscles now do much of the work that the ligaments & tendons should do. What I get as I push myself slowly & lopsidedly around a track in a funny looking chair is shouts of encouragement, smiles, normalcy, and fresh air, all of which do me the world of good. Today was hard & my right shoulder was not playing ball. I fought my way through training and subsequently created a mega pain flare which meant spending the evening in a morphine haze, strapped to a tens machine, and reduced to non-verbal communication via whimpers & tweeting. It was worth it though. It wanted me to stay in bed, but I didn’t. I may have been in an awful pissy mood, but I got out there & put my big girl pants on. Who needs legs when you have a lightweight chair?

Thirty years ago (age 6) I had clicky knees and my teacher called my mum into school as she was concerned about my hypochondria. I was always sporting a support bandage for a sprain, or crying during PE because my ankles / knees / hips hurt. I was tall & skinny and covered in bruises from falling, or kneeling, or who knows. I loved riding my bike, but 10 minutes into an off road ride I’d be exhausted & my knees would hurt. I was a weak child. I wet the bed – this was never to be discussed outside of the house (to my knowledge I don’t think we even told the dr). We tried everything, but it continued way past an age where you’d want to admit to it. (I’ve not even blogged about it before, but it’s time to put that piece of the puzzle into place).

Twenty years ago (age 16) I didn’t know that everyone else didn’t ache like hell by bedtime. I certainly knew that it wasn’t normal to find yourself desperate to pee and not hold it. I couldn’t stay awake as long as everyone else who could party all night. I was miserable. We were teenagers, so walked everywhere and my hips would scream & getting to hot would lead to being so dizzy I could hear my heartbeat whooping past my ears. Consequently, I was told it was in my head & given antidepressants. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy with me believing that the physical pain was in my head. For a number of years I self harmed through traditional means, risky behaviour, and poisonous relationships.

Ten years ago (Age 24) I had two tiny people who arrived early, a c-section scar that tore and damaged the nerves in my stomach, shins of a 10 year old (bruised) and was in a whole lot of pain with my back, hips & knees. I had migraines & after getting really run down with babies, university, & working evenings at the theatre, I caught viral meningitis. I used sticks & a basic folding wheelchair on and off when my back was particularly bad. Physio tried to reposition my spine & damaged my pelvis permanently. Each injury was looked at in isolation & we had no idea why I had such bad luck with my joints.

A year ago I was in daily pain, taking regular painkillers and using sticks to move around most days. I had no idea why I was in so much pain & my joints were so unstable. Picking up.my laptop bag, I could feel my elbow & wrist separating, so Mr Geek bought me a bag on wheels. I was exhausted & aside from a diagnosis of osteoarthritis, was seeking help to understand my body. My GP was reluctant, but gave in when I begged for something more than just opiates.

8 months ago, I could barely move out of my wheelchair or keep hold of a meal & had trouble swallowing. I lost weight & we wondered how bad this would get. I saw a specialist in connective tissue disorders who put all the puzzle pieces together with a diagnosis of Ehlers Danlos Syndrome type 3 (Hypermobility) with a type 1 crossover (Classical). That diagnosis changed everything. Ok, it’s a diagnosis without a cure, but it’s one that explains to A&E why I’m there, it’s one that paved a way to pain management, it gave me a foundation to work from. The pain was real & now I knew why.

Now I’m going to propel myself 5k in a paralympic style racing chair (lent by the lovely Harriers Team). Mr Geek since we first met has been my relentless supporter, physio, carer, chef, comedian. He quite literally picks me up when I fall down. He has facilitated me fighting my own genetics more than any doctor or physio. He’s put a fair amount of his life on hold for me. This probably isn’t the time to get into why Mr Geek isn’t allowed to run alongside me (men get breast cancer too & yet are banned from this event)., but he’ll be there at the finish line as a real reason to make the full distance. I’m by no means better, but we have so much more of an understanding of my body & how it’s likely to function. Knowledge is power.

So, I’m partially doing this as a thank you for believing that I can fight this in my own adapted way & also to support someone very special who’s kicking the big C in its balls. Cancer Research could save thousands of lives and countless more family & friends who are affected.
When the consultants finally get around to working together instead of intellectual willy waving, there is hope for a treatment for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Until then, I shall wobble my way along the track supporting & representing those who can’t.

Like this:

At the start of the week I commented to the lady who drives me back & forth to work that this term doesn’t feel as long as last. After a week of migraines, popped out shoulders, & cold limbs, I take it all back. I’m not wholly sure how I’m going to drag my wobbly aching carcass through another week of this. EDS has once again knocked me flat on my arse. My current days are going something like this:

6amMr Geek wakes me up by stroking my back, then helping me stretch out & rubbing my feet & legs until I can tolerate using the crutches to get to the loo. Then he gets out my clothes and helps me get dressed (all the while discreetly checking that I’m not going to topple over from a limb giving out or just plain potsy fainting).
Right now, mornings are hard. I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus & am making it to work not through guts & determination, but because of Mr Geek physically moving me through my morning routine & fear of losing my job. Even the idea of cutting my hours puts me on edge – despite the potential for feeling physically better and actually getting to spend some time with my offspring, not being full time makes me more dispensable & if Mr Geek stops working from home, there’ll be zero buffer against people talking at me (no rest potential there – may as well be herding kids).

6.30amSat on the side of the bed, Mr Geek brushes my hair into a sock bun whilst I attempt to plaster my face in enough self-tan moisturiser, concealer, eyeliner, and contour the living crap out of it until it submits to looking human. Final touches – my headscarves to protect my hair from breaking, because although it’s looking healthy again, it starts matting & breaking the minute I leave it out.

Mr Geek saves the morning yet again here surrounding me with my baskets of morning drugs & make up. He doesn’t leave me until everything is in reach.

7amDown the world’s slowest roller coaster to my chariot awaiting me at the bottom of the stairs. It’s a work day, so it’s The Beast. The powerchair is necessary as 8 hours+ of self propelling is arm rippingly painful.
It’s weird, the powerchair is built specifically for me, but I’ve come to resent it. I’m passive in it. In utter contrast, Leonardo (my manual) is an extension of me.As I get into the kitchen, Mr Geek hands me coffee & hot milky weetabix which perks me up enough to kiss the kids goodbye and wheel myself into the taxi and off to work.
I don’t want to be leaving the house right now. I want to crawl back into bed & rest my bones that won’t hold me up. I want to cuddle up to Mr Geek and giggle over my snap crackle and popping joints when he cuddles too tight. I want to sleep. But, instead I put on a big smile & say good morning in my Oscar winning performance as girl who is coping.

7.40amOff to work. Bones rattling. Pain levels increasing. The chair is strapped down in the van, but I am not. I wobble freely over the hill wincing at the cattle. We’re both headed for vets soon.

It's not a terrible view on my commute

8.15am – 4.30pmHoly hell in a handbasket. There’s a blur of 100+ students, marking, worrying, patrolling of corridors. They ground me & remind me that my little whirlpool of pain isn’t the whole world. There’s other shit going on & if I don’t vacate my pity party right now, I have a shit-tonne of kids to dissapoint. And that’s not going to happen. They couldn’t give 2 hoots if I’m on my feet, in a chair, doubled over in agony, they need entertaining & their little sponge minds filled with the stuff I’ve got. Life goes on.

There’s also a rising tang of pain that exudes from my hips and hands and across my body. Painkillers and work don’t mix well, so let’s suck it up for a few more hours…

5pm.Home. Kiss kids.Lay on sofa. Oh God my head / joints / back / [fill in the blank].Nap. This is probably the most restful hour of sleep of the day. It’s delicious.

7pmWake up to Mr Geek trying to talk to me and waving food in my general direction.Then straight to bed & set the bed incline to sat up with raised feet whilst blogging / watching TV until the evening drugs kick in enough to let me pass out again.

To sleep. Per chance to dream.
I wish I could sleep.

It’s a miserable way of looking at my days, but it’s my reality during term times and it becomes a harsher reality as the term goes on. This half term is 7 weeks, as is the next one. Most holidays I’ll keep working from home to stay on top of things, but this half term I’m planning to rest.
I’m not wholly sure what the long term goal is now. Right now, what we’re doing is just about physically surviving the week, then treating every weekend like it were a tiny holiday (and getting mightily frustrated if time is ‘wasted’ not making the most of our down time. Ironic eh?).

Like this:

It’s been a funny old day facilitated by a lot of painkillers. It’s been a bloody long one too. A total of 13 hours from leaving for work to returning home. That might not be much to some, but 13 solid hours in the wheelchair with no chance to transfer, or stretch out, or in fact have a nap after a tosh nights sleep was all a bit much.

I was greeted by a colleague today who goes out of his way to help me navigate the doors at work each morning. Not out of pity, but because he gets that it’s just hard opening doors and he misses the sense of community from his home country that is lacking in the UK. I enjoy our morning chats and I find his very honest love for people infectious. I’m a grumpy arsehole in the morning, but he brightens my day by leaping out of his classroom to hold open a few doors just for me.

This morning he asked me how I stay so cheerful and positive. He really meant it. I did a presentation at the start of the year to the whole school faculty and apparently I was genuinely passionate. I do smile. I do ask how people are. I do laugh off the crappy days. It worried me that I seem so genuinely positive. Have I really got that good at faking it?

Of course I’m not going to tell you I’m in agony and my pelvis is burning. Instead put on a big smile and say “I’m fine! How are you?” Or make some stupid quip about having all 4 limbs.

Of course I won’t tell you about spending 20 minutes this morning layering on special concealer, foundation, and powder to hide the eye bags. I do appreciate you saying how well I look though as it validates my make up skills.

Edit: before and after. Eek!

Of course I’m going to shrug and say it could be worse, or there’s nothing I can do so why worry? These lines are so well versed that even if believe them some days. And actually only a couple of people get away with the following up of “and how are you actually doing?”. Mrs G, Mr Geek & Mr Gypsytree get honest answers. They are the glue that holds the bits of my mind together. Mrs Gypsytree aka Sherlock gets a special version where I don’t have to say much.*

How do I stay so positive? Easy. I fake it. And apparently I deserve a bloody Oscar.

The reality is that I got home today after a 12 hour stint at school + an hour of travelling in so much pain I found it hard to speak. I hit tired at lunchtime and pushed through tired into manic, then into plain weird where I got cross with Mr Geek for chewing to loudly near me, then finally rock bottom where I just cried buckets because I typed the Gypsytrees’ collective names. Just to help, I now can’t sleep as my legs are restless and ALL the painkillers aren’t helping my extremities or the headache that’s creeping up the back of my neck.

A huge part of that reality is being scared that if I rage about being in pain and physically useless all the time I’ll get boring and that stuck record will get old and eventually be left alone. So instead I smile as if my life depends on it. Because to a certain extent it does.

On a much funnier note, a student at school went joy…err..hopping on my emergency crutches that I keep in my 1st floor classroom today. In his defense, he hadn’t considered why they are there, nor what would happen if there was a fire and my chair failed. Equally in his defense, with hindsight it’s quite funny watching someone describe a TWOC offense (taking without consent – which is usually reserved for vehicles) when referring to crutches. How far did he think he would get? We’re they going somewhere? Why would you do that? Is there a crutch black market? The teenage boy brain baffles me. The hardest part : keeping a straight face.

* Note to self: It’s OK to miss them. It’s not ok to get runny mascara over the Marvel Duvet cover. Captain America now looks like he’s been down the mines.

I have spent the past fortnight working myself into a panicked frenzy over the Occupational Therapy appointment. Truth be told, a few stories of social services threatening to take away kids planted seeds of terror that grew faster than bamboo. I hate that my kids have to help me out. At 9 & 11, they shouldn’t need to help their mum get dressed.

After my less than productive phonecall with social services, I was less than receptive. And despite that, we’d spent a full week cleaning (we meaning Mr Geek) because clearly cleaning the house will make you a better parent.

I’d made an effort to look like I was totally coping when she arrived, despite having been trashed at work and arriving home to find that Dad had collected TinyPants from school early with a fever.

Then I was utterly bowled over by her being totally supportive. She completely saw through me pretending to be fine (and even wrote down me wincing as my stomach cramped – some idiot had abandoned the meal replacement and tried to feel better at lunch by eating mac & cheese. There’s not a lot less fodmappy and I paid for that mistake for 9 whole bloated crampy hours).

She spoke to me like a real human – not pitying, but practical. And it took that one conversation to flick on the light bulb that if I got over myself and started using the chair in the house instead of doing the death shuffle on crutches, I might be a bit more independent.

It hadn’t occurred that not walking might give me the ability to make myself a drink, or help with the dishes, or just get to the loo without wanting to cry. Whilst the crutches are important because I want to retain some muscle strength, I’m buggering up my shoulders and wrists.

So why don’t you use the chair in the house? Well, mainly because of the doors (and my pride) – I can’t get my chair in the front door, or out the back door to the conservatory where Mr Geek and I have our living space (my parents live in the front room). And in one sentence, she solved it.

“OK, we’ll order you 2 ramps and whilst we’re at it, a wedge so you can use the patio”.

Say what you like about having to wait for British health care, how many uninsured Americans would just be given house adaptations to help them feel more normal?

I’m not a great talker one to one and get very nervous, but she just knew her stuff. It was one of the first non-specialist appointments where I didn’t need to explain EDS. She’d already spent time looking it up (whoa). She was just great, and even offered a full copy of her report so I could add it to my PIP evidence.

It may take a while to sort out the ramps, but I’m not sure I’m totally ready to use the chair at home. I can see why it would help, but it’s a bit scary. I may try the manual one inside for a while just to get used to doors and stuff. Hey, it may let me stay up for a bit longer in the evening rather than going to bed at the same time as the kids!

This all actually happened yesterday but I was too tired and in pain to write. I’m coasting on my painkillers which just aren’t cutting it for working full time. I’m struggling to find something actually effective and it’s a long old road with the GP to find the right one. For now I’m sticking with combining dihyrocodeine and co-codamol as a cocktail with gabapentin and the other non-pain bits whilst I wait to see the GP next week to return the tramadol which was about as effective as a tic tac. I could see them sooner, but work is getting in the way (me with parents evening tomorrow & Mr Geek with working in London on Friday ), so I’m going to just have to hang on in there for a bit longer. I’ve kept it pretty much under control up to now, but today I nearly cracked.

It’s hard to describe the pain, but it’s similar to when I was an idiot on rollerskates some yars back and fell, promptly putting my arms out straight which on impact with the floor dislocated my elbow, fracturing it on the way back in. That sort of gnawing ache that makes you feel nauseous. Now apply that to multiple joints and other bits you can’t quite identify and you’ve got how it feels for me.

There are more and more nights where I sit up randomly rubbing joints or pushing them back, talking myself round that I can get through another day at work. Tonight is particularly hard. I’m tired. Proper tired. And yet in too much pain to sleep (hence blogfest) or remain still because twitching and twisting seems to help or at least give the impression of crawling out of my body. By Thursday I’m generally a mess anyway, but tomorrow holds a 13 hour day of teaching, then meeting, then parents evening. What I want is to curl up and stay in bed until the worst of this wave passes. What I will do is grit my teeth, slap a smile on and get on with it.